


typogRaphy

by lecrivaineanonyme



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Book Arts AU, E/R relationship comes later on, Grantaire and Feuilly spend a lot of time nerding out about artists books, Letterpress, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:28:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1965504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecrivaineanonyme/pseuds/lecrivaineanonyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You aren’t afraid to make a statement with your work. You aren’t afraid of pulping beer labels to make paper.”</p><p>Grantaire stared at him for a moment. “How did you know about that disaster?”</p><p>“Professor Murray keeps a photo of you covered in the pulp in his office,” Feuilly said with a shrug. “He also uses it on slides discussing the process of making paper.”</p><p>Also known as the Book Arts AU where letterpress printer/book artist Grantaire accidentally falls in with a group of idealistic, politically active college students thanks to his awesome intern, Feuilly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Book Arts AU that I've been itching to write ever since I saw a Vandercook letterpress in action. It is partly inspired by my work in a library, where we collect artists books.
> 
> I apologize if the characters are OOC - my fiction writing skills are rusty. 
> 
> I do not own any of these characters. All mistakes are entirely my own. 
> 
> This fic was beta'ed by the incredibly wonderful Lynchy8. Their commentary and suggestions have been invaluable.

Grantaire was halfway out on the fire escape when he realized that it wasn’t the fire alarm, but his phone going off at eight in the morning. Cursing, he hauled himself back in, grabbed the cordless phone before heading towards the coffee maker. He couldn’t deal with anybody at this time of the morning without coffee.

“‘Lo?”he answered, his voice scratchy.

“Good morning, may I speak with Mr. Grantaire please?”

“You’ve found him.” He poured coffee beans into the machine, trying to remember who actually had his landline number.

“Lovely. My name is Dolores Hardwick, and I’m calling from the Yela School of Art at Wagner University…”

“My donation check to the scholarship fund is in the mail.” Grantaire groped around in his cabinet, fingers closing around his favorite “I AM NOT HIDING VODKA IN THIS MUG” mug. 

“That’s - that’s very generous, Mr. Grantaire….”

“I don’t know if it’s really generous, seeing as I did it to stop the damned donation envelopes from showing up in my mailbox.” Grantaire winced as he stepped on cap from a milk jug. The cats had apparently been digging through the recycling again. He bought them nice toys, but they’d rather go dumpster diving, the furry bastards. He glared at the pair of them, snoozing contentedly on the back of the sofa.

It was way too early for this shit.

“Not that I don’t like helping students,” he continued, tossing the cap back into the recycling bin. “Helping students is great. God knows they need it. But I honestly did it to serve my own self-interest as much as I did it for theirs. It wouldn’t be altruism as Ayn Rand defined it, because she argues that guilt drives altruism, whereas my own selfish enjoyment of having an empty mailbox was the primary motivation behind my actions.”

“Mr. Grantaire...”

“I mean, it was like that scene from Harry Potter. You know the one where all the letters start shooting out of the fireplace? That’s what opening my mailbox was like. Donation envelopes all over the place.”

“I’m so sorry…”

Grantaire grinned. He knew he was being an ass, but what did people expect when they called at this ungodly hour? “I’m considering using them to wall-paper my office. Or the hallway. The landlord will really appreciate that.”

“Mr. Grantaire.” Dolores was firm, if slightly rattled. “I am terribly sorry for your misfortune with the financial aid office, but I’m afraid I’m calling for a different reason.”

“Ah.” Grantaire could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times a university representative had called him to discuss matters besides giving back. “Well, how else can I be of use to the university?” he asked, filling his mug.

“Well, as you know, students in our programs are required to complete an internship. We have a student who specializes in work very similar to yours. He has expressed interest in completing his internship with you. Would you be interested in hosting him for the upcoming semester?”

“Um.” Grantaire stared into his mug. “What would I do with an intern?”

“You would design projects that allow him to develop his skills as an artist and as a professional,” Dolores explained.  “Let him sit in on consultations, produce art for your studio, balance the checkbooks, that sort of thing. Throughout the semester, you will provide him with feedback and evaluation.”

Grantaire’s gut immediately told him this was a bad idea. He wasn’t a professor or a teacher or a guidance counselor – he had no experience guiding students through their final years of education. Given his own life, he was pretty sure he had no business doing so, either.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I have to grade him? Listen Dolores, I’m happy to let him come and tinker with my toys, but I am in no way qualified to give anybody a grade.”

“It’s not grading, Mr. Grantaire. It’s evaluating the quality of tasks performed and art produced…”

“That sounds an awful lot like grading, Dolores,” Grantaire replied, a note of panic creeping into his voice. _Breathe_ , he told himself sternly. _Panicking doesn’t help. Breathe_.

“Think of it as an exercise in mentoring. The idea is to provide the student with an idea of what it would be like working as a professional artist. Just mimic that and you should be fine.”

“Still, I’m hardly qualified to mentor anybody. _I_ still need a mentor. Hell, I need a babysitter.” _Breathe, damn it, breathe._

“He requested you specifically.”

There was a pause. “Excuse me?”

Dolores sighed. “Our student requested you specifically. Professor Murray and I met with him last week to discuss it, and he said you were his first choice.”

Well, that was the last thing Grantaire was expecting to hear. _Plot twist_ his mind supplied. He tried to wrap his head around what Dolores was saying.

“Why the hell would anybody want to intern with me?”

“Does it really matter?” Dolores asked.

“Of course it does! You people are responsible for his future, and you’re going to let him intern with an idiot like me, when he could be doing a real apprenticeship with Emmeline Weisbeck down at Blue Swallow Press!” Grantaire slammed his mug down on the counter so that he could gesticulate as he was prone to do without showering himself in boiling fluid.

“She’s fabulous printer, has a thriving business, and actually knows what she’s doing. Plus, she’s an all-around lovely individual. She put up with my sorry ass for a semester for a start.”   _And still considers me a friend_ he thought to himself.

“We suggested Emmeline when we met with him,” Dolores replied, somehow managing to remain calm and professional, “but he was really hoping to work with someone whose work is more…avant garde.”

Grantaire snorted.

“My work isn’t avant garde, it’s Class A bullshit.”

“Have you read your own resume and reviews, Mr. Grantaire? Work produced by Fulbright scholars is generally not considered bull –“She coughed. “Subpar.”

“Yes it is, we just believe our own lies to the point where we don’t realize it,” Grantaire responded, somewhat sourly. “The day I believe my own reviews is the day I start seeing films based on what the damn critics have to say.”

“Mr. Grantaire…”

“The point is, Dolores, that if your student interns with me, he’s going to learn how to create custom wedding invitations, how to create commissions, and the finer details of drinking red wine. That’s my bread and butter. If he goes to Emmeline, he’ll actually get an idea of what it is like creating artists books.” Grantaire took a swig of coffee. “I’m beyond flattered he’s interested, but it’s a poor career move on his part.”

“Look, our student is a very talented young man, Mr. Grantaire,” Dolores answered smoothly. “Professor Murray claims he’s the best printing student he’s had since you came through the program. More importantly, he is an adult capable of deciding with whom he’d like to intern. He would very much like to work with you – if you would consider him.”

Grantaire drummed his fingers on the countertop. He suspected he was unlikely that Dolores would accept a negative answer. If he wanted a quiet life, both in the short and long term, it would be far easier to give in. Saying yes was in his rational self-interest, he thought wryly. Then maybe he might be allowed to go back to bed.

“Send me his portfolio,” he said finally. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He hung up the phone and went to the liquor cabinet. After all, the mug said nothing about hiding a shot of Bailey’s.

 

 

Several miles away, Dolores Hardwick hung up the phone, and put her head in her hands just as Professor Murray stuck his head in her office.

“Rough night, Dolores?”

“I just got off the phone with Grantaire” she muttered. “I need an aspirin. Or six.”

Professor Murray laughed. “You probably should’ve waited until noon. He’s…not a morning person, that one. How about I buy you coffee to make up for it?”

“Make it Irish, and I’ll consider forgiving you.”

 

If he hadn’t seen his own face mirror that morning, Feuilly would have sworn that he had switched bodies with Bossuet based on the day he was having. He was a half an hour late Professor Murray’s class; the battery in his alarm clock had died overnight and the fact that his bicycle was in the shop meant he had to take the city bus to campus. His afternoon shift at the craft supply shop had gone rather poorly, and he had to hang around for an extra fifteen minutes while his manager made him sort yarn.

Which meant he was going to be late for his internship appointment. An internship appointment he had begged his advisor to make, because Grantaire was not only an alumni of Feuilly’s own program, but a rising star in the world of art, having received several grants to sponsor projects, been exhibited twice since graduation, and even traveled to Germany to study woodblock printing and typecasting on a Fulbright grant.

Feuilly may or may not have done a victory dance after Professor Murray called, informing him that Grantaire had agreed to a meeting.

“Well,” Feuilly muttered to himself, fumbling with his bus pass as he leaned against the lamp post, “at least it isn’t raining.”

Five seconds later, there was a clap of thunder and rain began to pour from the sky.

“Well, fuck.”

An hour after his appointment was scheduled to begin, Feuilly dashed up to the little studio that said _typogRaphy_ in the window and pushed open the door. He bent over, struggling to catch his breath, whilst sending raindrops cascading across the wooden floor.

“ _Christ almighty_ , you look like a drowned rat,” a voice said. Feuilly blinked his eyes open and saw a man with dark unruly curls standing in front of him, eyebrows raised and hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans.

So much for making a first impression.

Feuilly made to straighten up, but the dark-haired man held up his hand. “Don’t move,” he said, heading for a door that Feuilly assumed led to a back room. “I’ll be right back.”

So Feuilly stood there dripping, looking at his surroundings. He was in what appeared to be a small reception area. On the walls hung prints; some were woodblock printing, others were letterpress broadsides. Feuilly’s eyes were drawn to a triptych behind the desk. The first print showed a pair of hands, setting type; the second print showed the same pair of hands carving a woodblock; the third print showed the hands mixing ink.

“Here.” The dark-haired man was back, holding out a couple of thin towels. “They aren’t the best, but I don’t normally keep the Egyptian cotton in the studio, you know?”

“Thanks,” Feuilly answered, gratefully taking one and drying off his face.

“Of course. I’m Grantaire. You must be the student the school called about.”

Feuilly nodded, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole, his dreams of interning with the fine press movement’s newest darling crumbling with every rivulet of water running across the floor. “My name is Feuilly. I’m sorry I’m late. My bike is broken, my boss kept me around for an extra fifteen minutes, and the bus was late…”

Grantaire waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. Shit happens.” He sized Feuilly up, his gaze thoughtful.  Feuilly resisted the urge to hide his face behind the towel. “Let’s go sit in the back office,” Grantaire said finally. “I’ll make us some coffee. You look like you could use it.”

Feuilly couldn’t deny that he was still shivering, so he followed Grantaire through the door, down a hallway and into a large and thankfully warm room. The furniture was mismatched; a worn plaid sofa, a rickety rocking chair, and a skirted wingback chair covered in polka dots surrounded a coffee table in the center. A kitchenette was in the far corner, across from a cluttered desk and a filing cabinet.

“Sit.” Grantaire gestured at the worn out sofa. “I’m afraid the furniture is a bit patchy, but I don’t see the point in buying particularly nice things when I’m eventually going to forget I’m wearing my apron, sit down and get ink all over it.” He walked over to the kitchenette and fired up a creaky coffee maker. “I’ve only got powdered cream and a couple packets of Sweet ‘n Low. I try to keep decent coffee, but I just got a new set of Bodoni type in, so I had to fudge the budget.”

“Black is fine,” Feuilly replied. “Sugar is for the weak.”

Grantaire toasted him with a battered mug he pulled from the cupboard. “I like the way you think.” He filled up that mug and a second one, handing it to Feuilly, who downed half of it in one gulp.

“I’m going to go lock up,” Grantaire said. “I’ll be right back.” He left, whistling as he walked down the hallway.

Feuilly was a little confused. He had been expecting lecture on punctuality from someone in a tie, or perhaps somebody wearing skinny jeans and large plastic glasses. Instead, he had gotten towels and coffee from a scruffy guy in jeans and lime green Nikes. This was Grantaire? The rising star of letterpress? Emmeline Weisbeck’s protégé? Feuilly wondered if Grantaire wore Nikes to his Fulbright interviews.

“So, you need an internship.” Grantaire’s voice brought Feuilly back to reality. “I guess we should start by talking about me and what I do? I mean, you probably already know all this shit, but just so we’re both on the same page?” He looked at Feuilly, as if waiting for an affirmation that yes, this was a good idea. So Feuilly nodded. He sure as hell didn’t know.

“Okay, great.” Grantaire sat down in the rickety rocking chair across from Feuilly. “Like I said, my name is Grantaire, and this is my studio. I guess it’s technically a press, but seeing as I’ve only printed one book, the term ‘press’ is debatable.” He chuckled, pushing the mop of curls behind his ears. “What else do you need to know? I graduated from Wagner University with a degree in art, focusing on the book arts and printmaking, with a dual minor in philosophy and classics. Because if I’m going to disappoint my dad by studying the arts instead of going into the S.T.E.M. fields, might as well go big, right?” He let out another bitter laugh.

Feuilly chuckled half-heartedly. He had no idea what to make of this.

“Anyway, I went back for an MFA just to piss Dad off even further, and because apparently people liked my stuff enough to give me scholarships. Got a Fulbright that allowed me to run around Germany in the name of research. Interned with Emmeline Weisbeck at the Blue Swallow Press and got my ass kicked. Graduated. Had a few pieces exhibited. Saved my pennies and took out a few more loans to rent studio space and eventually had enough for my Vandy.” A smile flickered across Grantaire’s face at the mention of his Vandercook press. “And here I am. Mostly do commission work and fancy invitations. I’ve got a couple ideas that I may turn into exhibitions eventually, but commissions pay off loans faster.”

Grantaire was just getting stranger by the minute. Who works on commissions faster than one’s exhibition artwork?

“But that’s more than enough about me. Tell me about yourself, Feuilly.” Grantaire sat back and sipped his coffee.

Feuilly cleared his throat. “Well, I’m in my final year at Wagner University. I’m majoring in studio art with a focus on printing and book arts and in education. I’m hoping to eventually get my MFA so I can teach at the college level.”

“So is teaching your main goal?” Grantaire asked.

“Eventually, yes. I’d like to create art that educates people. I want to make art that makes people think and ask questions. I want teach them how to express themselves using art.”

“So why me? Why would you want to intern with a guy who makes hipster wedding announcements?”

Feuilly was flabbergasted. All the artists he’d met had asked the same question, but with a very different inflection. Grantaire wasn’t asking why he should give Feuilly the time of the day; he was asking why Feuilly should give Grantaire the time of day.

What the hell?

“Because as much as I like a beautifully printed book, I’m not necessarily interested in learning how to make books that only please stuffy book collectors,” Feuilly said finally, recovering his composure. “Because you aren’t afraid to experiment where Blue Swallow Press has a very traditional approach to printing and bookmaking. You aren’t afraid to make a statement with your work. You aren’t afraid of pulping beer labels to make paper.”

Grantaire stared at him for a moment. “How did you know about that disaster?”

“Professor Murray keeps a photo of you covered in the pulp in his office,” Feuilly said with a shrug. “He also uses it on slides discussing the process of making paper.”

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “dirty rat bastard,” Grantaire walked over to the filing cabinet and after rifling around for a few minutes retrieved a folder. “The school sent me your portfolio.”

“It’s hard to judge printouts of photos taken of art,” he continued, taking the contents out of the folder and spreading them on the coffee table, then sitting back down, “but they can give a general idea of an artist’s style.”

Feuilly cringed at the grainy images of his prints. “I could bring you the actual pieces, if you would rather see those,” he offered.

“No need.” Grantaire took a sip of his coffee, and Feuilly steeled himself for rejection as his heart sank.

“I mean, I would like to see them eventually. Your work, Feuilly, is really quite impressive. These photos don’t do them any justice whatsoever. Particularly this one.” He pointed to the photograph of a fan.

Wait, what? Grantaire liked his fan?

“Is this actually a book?” Grantaire was looking at Feuilly expectantly, finger still pointing towards the photograph.

Feuilly nodded automatically, still attempting to process the praise. “Yes, I took a book arts course. That was my final project.”

“Woodblock printing with hand-painted details?” Grantaire traced the patterns absentmindedly with his finger as Feuilly nodded again. “What kind of paper did you use?”

“I wanted to use rice paper, but it ended up being too delicate, so I went with rag paper,” Feuilly explained. “It was supposed to be very translucent, visualizing the idea of letting one’s authentic self shine through preconceived masks. That’s what the text on the fan is about.”

“Rice paper would have been an excellent choice for that metaphor. Very Calvinist, in a sense. The Calvinists believe that one’s salvation is predetermined. No one can tell whether or not one is destined for the pearly gates or the flames, but early Calvinists thought there were signs one could watch for. The holiness of one destined for eternal bliss would shine through in their actions, like the light of a candle under a wicker basket. Although why anybody would put a candle under a wicker basket is beyond me. A total fire hazard. Never understood why Jesus felt the need to tell his followers not to put candles under bushels, unless Peter was a secret pyromaniac.

“But what IS the authentic self?” Grantaire leaned forward, eyes suddenly alight with interest. “Isn’t it true that rather than a single self, each person is comprised of a multiplicity of selves, each one adopted when it is most suitable for the situation?”

“We adjust our behavior to suit a given situation, but one’s behavior is not necessarily indicative of one’s inner self. A typically outgoing person might restrain themselves in a somber situation. A painfully honest person might lie if the occasion called for it.” Feuilly paused, running a hand through his drying hair as he pondered how to best phrase his thought. Professor Murray had decidedly not informed him that internship interviews involved deep philosophical discussion. Was arguing with Grantaire going to make Feuilly seem antagonistic? He had strong opinions for sure, but he wasn’t a terribly confrontational person. Conversely, would agreeing with Grantaire just cause Feuilly to look like a sycophant? The excited spark in Grantaire’s eye suggested that he enjoyed the back-and-forth, but Feuilly couldn’t be sure.

“People dictate their behavior,” he finally continued, “but such behavior can contrary to one’s self. Title does not dictate behavior. Self does not dictate behavior. The rational mind dictates behavior. The self merely exists.”

Grantaire suddenly grinned, his crooked teeth gleaming. “Did you just quote _Clerks_?”

“Quoting _Clerks_ is a valid method of argument.”

“I won’t argue with that. But pray tell, how does one let the true self candle shine through the wicker basket if not through action? Others cannot see thoughts. Others cannot see beliefs. Others cannot see feelings. Others can see actions.”

“That is the entire point of the text of the book – not to let preconceived ideas about who you are or what you do dictate your actions. But it’s also about not letting it dictate how you perceive yourself. People struggle just as much with accepting themselves as they do with society accepting them. How hard is it to give yourself permission to be yourself?” Every ounce of common sense was screaming at Feuilly, telling him that he probably shouldn’t be talking social politics during an interview, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Think of the gay man and the lesbian woman, living in the society that considers heterosexual as the norm.  Or the bisexual, asexual, genderqueer and trans people who just get forgotten about. Think of the introvert, living in the society that values the extrovert. It’s hard to accept one’s self in that kind of setting. So that’s part of it as well. Title does not dictate action, nor does it dictate self.”

Grantaire looked at him thoughtfully. “Could the fan also symbolize the mask we put on ourselves to make ourselves presentable to society as much as a mask that society puts on us?”

Feuilly looked at the photo. “You know, I hadn’t thought about it that way, but that’s another interpretation, too.”

“Well, it’s an impressive piece, no matter what. I’d like to see you try to remake it with rice paper. Or perhaps do an installation of several fans, representing different kinds of masks? Now that would be a great exhibit.” Grantaire scratched his head. “Weren’t we supposed to be talking about something else?”

“My internship.”

“Right.” Grantaire shifted.  “I’m going to be straight with you, Feuilly. You won’t be adding any prestige to your resume by interning with me. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do as a mentor, I listen to obnoxiously loud music while I work and sing along, I spend a lot of my time doing commission work and wedding invitations rather than creating art for exhibitions. I ramble a lot, I drink a lot, and you’ll probably hate me by semester’s end. You’d be much better off working with Emmeline Weisbeck at Blue Swallow Press, as I’m sure Professor Murray told you.”

Feuilly held his breath, not sure if he wanted Grantaire to finish his sentence or not. So much hung on the next words out of that man’s mouth. Grantaire exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“But if you really want to intern here, I’m happy to have you on board.”

Feuilly suddenly felt dazed. “You mean it? You’d let me work here?”

Grantaire chuckled. “I can’t turn down anybody who creates awesome art, quotes _Clerks_ , and doesn’t get up and leave the minute I start rambling about Calvinist theology.”

Feuilly grinned. “When do I start?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was extremely blown away by the warm reception the first chapter of this fic got - thank you so much for reading it and leaving comments and kudos! I'm beyond thrilled that you are enjoying all the book arts nerdery. 
> 
> I'm also terribly sorry for the delay in bringing you the second chapter - my summer coursework caught up with me, so this got put on the back burner. I'm hoping the wait between chapters isn't always this long. 
> 
> This chapter was again beta'ed by the amazing Lynchy8. I don't know what I'd do without them.

“Tell me friends, why, when an important document is designed, do the designers always go with a calligraphic script or a Gothic font?” Grantaire drained his bottle of beer, setting it down with a _plunk_. “Do people not realize how illegible those fonts are? It is true that the eye sees calligraphic type and the mind associates it with men of old painstakingly copying each document by hand with a quill pen. Surely it must be a very important document to have had calligraphers expend such painstaking labor during the document’s creation! Only the documents of the utmost importance can be deserving of such artistry! But the truth of the matter is you cannot _read_ the godforsaken documents, what with all the pointy bits and unnecessary flourishes and swirls. Is it a puzzle? A test of worthiness? ‘Whosoever deciphers this text, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor and can attend my sacred nuptials?’”

A woman with a lavender bob chuckled. “You know, reading calligraphy isn’t that hard if you aren’t half-plastered, R,” she replied with a grin. “Right, Anton?”

She addressed herself to a man standing at the bar, who waved back in cheerful agreement. His dreadlocks were pulled into a ponytail and his arms were covered in swirling tattoo sleeves.

“If they don’t want the curlicues, then they want the Gothic and Fraktur fonts, which are the most illegible fonts humankind ever designed,” Grantaire continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Just _looking_ at Fraktur – no, _any_ Gothic typeface gives me a headache.”

“If you’ve got a headache, R, you might want to stop drinking for a bit,” Anton called out in a bright tone, plunking down a fresh pitcher of beer and a stack of glasses at their table. “I’m sure Amber, Viktor, Emmeline, and I can finish this pitcher off ourselves.”

Grantaire laughed. “The nerve of you, Anton. You invite me out for drinks, then bar me from the communal pitcher. What did I do to deserve to be excommunicated from our fellowship?”

“You insulted William Morris earlier,” Viktor answered with mock solemnity. “That alone is blasphemy. In the eyes of the private press movement, you have brought your excommunication upon yourself by mocking his sacred name and work.”

“I didn’t mock the bastard, I just said he sometimes overdid it with the ornaments,” Grantaire pouted.

Amber filled a glass and passed it down to Grantaire. “Say ten hail Kelmscott Presses and you’ll be forgiven,” she soothed with a wink. “Welcome back, Brother R.”

“Well now I don’t know if want to join,” Grantaire replied, folding his arms. “What is the party line on Gothic typefaces and all their unnecessary pointy bits, eh? You know, I suppose if I was a font, I would be some piece of shit Gothic font. I’m illegible, rather thick, got lots of extra pointy bits, and should be tossed aside for something more suited to the task. Or perhaps I would be some swishy, flourishy nonsense. All flair, no substance. Friends, I say to hell with Gothic typeface! And to hell with ME!”

“All right, which of you lot brought up Gothic typeface in front of Grantaire?” a long-suffering voice asked.

Anton made a noise of protest. “Don’t blame us, Emmeline. He brought it up himself!”

Emmeline Weisbeck looked at Grantaire sternly, eyes narrowed through her square lenses. “I thought we had an agreement, R. No typeface rants during staff meetings.”

“That’s such an illogical rule,” Grantaire retorted with a wry grin. “This is neither a meeting, nor am I on your staff.”

“You’re still on staff,” Emmeline replied. “I have you listed as a former intern. Once on staff, always on staff.”

“It’s still not a staff meeting,” Grantaire shrugged, taking a moment to toast his former boss before helping himself to another sip from his glass. “Therefore, our bargain does not apply.”

“It is Letterpress Happy Hour,” Viktor clarified, “in which the staff members of Blue Swallow and their closest associates come together to discuss the finer aspects of their art over a pint.”

“And yet you reject the common pitcher,” Grantaire remarked.

“That is not beer,” Viktor retorted, pointing at the pitcher. “Not by any definition. You Americans drink that piss and call it beer. It’s tragic.”

“Viktor, you really don’t have to defend your decision to get a gin and tonic by insulting our beer,” Amber teased.  

“The Germans do make fine beer,” Grantaire mused, “but let’s face it – American youth drink beer to get plastered, not to enjoy the full-bodied hoppy flavor. Overindulgence is the name of the game. As a matter of fact, I am the champion, nay, the patron saint of that game. But why would bars stock imported German beer when the college brats are content to swill Coors Light? And furthermore…”

“Riveting as this is,” Emmeline cut in dryly, “if you’re going to ramble incessantly, Grantaire, I’d much rather hear about this intern you swiped from me. Professor Murray hasn’t been this excited about a student since you.”

“Want me to the twist the knife of betrayal further?” Grantaire smirked. “No, from what I’ve seen Feuilly is a nice guy. Great artist, has a real sense for composition. His woodcuts are marvelous. I’ve half a mind to get an etching press in the studio just to watch him work.” He took a pull from his glass. “I just have no idea what he could possibly learn from me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Emmeline replied sharply. “The Cannon Gallery does not host exhibitions by hacks. Fulbrights are not given to the incompetent. And I certainly don’t hire fools. You have accomplished all three of these things and you dare to suggest you have no experience or wisdom to share? That’s bullshit.”

“I had no idea what I was doing when that happened,” Grantaire argued. “I was just bullshitting my way through. Those were all…happy little accidents.”

“Oh God, he’s quoting Bob Ross.” Anton buried his face in his hands. “I’m not drunk enough for this. Somebody pass the pitcher.”

“I resent the implication that my hiring of you as an intern was a happy little accident,” Emmeline retorted. “I make mistakes, but I don’t choose people on a whim. You have talent and false modesty does not become you. How many undergraduates will be able to say they interned for a Fulbright scholar, hm? You have a wealth of experience to share.”

“It’s not false modesty Emmeline,” Amber interjected as she refilled Anton’s glass. “He could have a painting in the Metropolitan Museum of Art or the Louvre and he’d still think he was unqualified.”

“Oh yes, the Metropolitan would be clamoring to get their hands on _My Ephemeral Face_ ,” Grantaire muttered.

“ _My Ephemeral Face_ is a great piece,” Amber replied, swatting Grantaire on the back of the head. “You showed it in your senior exhibition and won an award. You keep it in your living room. Admit it – you produced a piece you liked and got recognized for it.”

“Still doesn’t make me qualified…”

“That’s enough,” Emmeline said. “Grantaire, you are a well-qualified artist and printer who will provide Feuilly with valuable advice and experience. If you have any difficulty, you will come to me and I will do what I can to help.” She held out a well-manicured hand, light bouncing off the taupe polish. “Do we have a deal?”

Grantaire heaved a sigh and shook. “You drive a hard bargain, Weisbeck.”

“You bet your ass I do.” Emmeline drained her glass. “And you love me for it.”

Grantaire chuckled. The sad fact, he mused as he finished his own beer, was that he really did.

 

* * *

 

Feuilly felt like a kindergartner being sent off to his first day of school.

Not that he didn’t appreciate how enthusiastically supportive his friends were; it was one of the many things he loved about them. When Courfeyrac had insisted on hosting a group celebratory breakfast on the first day of Feuilly’s internship, he had smiled and let Courfeyrac plan. It was nice to have a fuss made of you on occasion. Not to mention Combeferre made a killer omelette.

What he had forgotten about was the requisite photo shoot with what Bahorel referred to as “Courf’s paparazzi camera.”

“Okay, excellent group shot everybody.” Courfeyrac looked up from his camera, where he had been inspecting the last five takes. “Now, we need to start the smaller group shots. Combeferre! Enjolras! You’re up! Bahorel, Jehan, you two are on deck. PLACES!”

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre said calmly as he posed next to Feuilly, “I think we have enough photographs now. We don’t want Feuilly to be late.”

“We’ll have enough pictures when I _say_ we have enough,” Courfeyrac retorted. “A single group shot does not a scrapbook make. And Feuilly will not be late. I won’t permit it. Now Enjolras, I want you to give Feuilly a pep talk.”

“Feuilly doesn’t need a pep talk,” Enjolras replied confidently. “He’s going to be great.” He smiled at Feuilly. “You ARE going to be great. You are talented, dedicated, intelligent, and responsible. You are going to blow them all away.” He gave Feuilly’s shoulder a squeeze before giving up on the pretense of stoicism and hugged him. Courfeyrac’s camera clicked madly in the background. “I believe in you, Feuilly. We _all_ believe in you.”

“Thanks Enjolras,” Feuilly answered gruffly, cheeks reddening under the attention.

“Excellent pep talk, Enjolras. Bahorel! Jehan! You’re up! Joly, Bossuet! When you two quit giggling over whatever pun Bossuet’s just made, you’re on deck!”

“Now remember, when throwing a punch, never curl your thumb under your fingers.” Bahorel folded Feuilly’s hand into a fist while Courfeyrac snapped away. “That’s a surefire way to break your thumb. And never lock your elbow when punching.”

“Thanks Bahorel, but I don’t know why I’d be punching anybody at the studio,” Feuilly replied, raising his eyebrows.

“You never know,” Bahorel said solemnly. “What if a client comes in and starts a ruckus? What if your boss says something so outlandish you need to deck him? What if the skeleton apocalypse starts while you’re there and I’m not there to remind you of proper punching techniques?”

“Ooh, a _skeleton_ apocalypse?” Jehan asked interestedly. “What’s that? Are they friendly skeletons?”

“If they’re causing the apocalypse,” Feuilly replied, “my guess is no.”

“JOLY! BOSSUET! YOUR TURN!” Courfeyrac hollered.

“Here Feuilly,” Joly handed him a red box covered in dinosaur stickers. “I made you a first aid kit in case of any accidents. Gauze, antiseptic ointment, cotton balls, aspirin, face masks, a mini flashlight, non-latex gloves, scissors, thermometer, medical tape, compressed dressing, tweezers, an instruction booklet, blister bandages, Avengers-themed bandages, and lollipops.”

“Lollipops?”

Joly grinned. “Every good patient deserves a lollipop!”

“Musichetta and I made you lunch,” Bossuet added, handing him a lunchbox. “I’m afraid there are no lollipops in there, but there is yummy grilled chicken, a veggie rice medley, and a piece of carrot cake. I wanted to give you two pieces of carrot cake, but alas, Musichetta did not agree that carrot cake counted as a vegetable.”

“You can have the second piece the next time you visit us,” Joly said. “I’ve hidden it away in a cupboard.”

“Anyway, you’d better rub my head for good luck before you go,” Bossuet said, bowing his head. “Or rather, to give me your bad luck. Not that you need luck, but why break tradition? It puts the bald spot to good use.”

Feuilly laughed as he rubbed a few circles on Bossuet’s head. “You are so generous with your luck, Bossuet. You give it all to us, and keep none for yourself.”

“Well if I can’t have it, I’d rather give it to you!” Bossuet replied cheerfully.

“Great shots, guys,” Courfeyrac said as he stabilized his camera on its tripod. “We have a few extra minutes, perhaps we could do some funny poses? Like Bahorel, Jehan, and Feuilly running away from skeletons…”

“COURF!” Bahorel hollered. “Calm down and remember to breathe!”

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Courfeyrac rubbed his eyes, which were oddly bright. “It’s just… Feuilly wanted this so badly, and now he’s got it, and it’s so exciting!” He bounced a few times on the balls of his feet before pulling Feuilly into a bone-crushing hug.

“Get off him you oaf, you’re choking him,” Jehan chided gently. “His face is turning blue.”

“Sorry.” Courfeyrac let Feuilly go and smiled. “You’d better get going then, Feuilly.”

Jehan kissed Feuilly on both cheeks. “Go kick ass, darling.”

Feuilly hopped on his bike and looked back at his clustered friends, waving madly. A warmth spread through his chest, a fond smile playing on his lips.

“Thanks guys,” he called out. “For everything!”

“You’re welcome!” Courfeyrac called back. “Now go!”

Feuilly laughed and headed down the street, the sound of the paparazzi camera clicking in the distance.

 

* * *

 

Feuilly opened the door to _typogRaphy_ to the wailing strains of soprano bouncing off the walls. Unsure of where exactly he was supposed to go, he followed the hallway until he got a door with a sign proclaiming “CAUTION: PROFESSIONALS AT WORK.” He pushed it open to find a roomy studio space.

Grantaire was sitting at a table in the composition area, carefully arranging type on the compositors stick, head bobbing as he sang along with the wailing soprano.

“ _Dôme épais, le jasmin,_ ” he sang jovially in a surprisingly decent falsetto, “ _À la rose s’assemble_.”

“When you said you listened to obnoxiously loud music, I had no idea that meant opera,” Feuilly commented as he sat next to Grantaire. “I would have brought my gloves and snooty glasses.”

Grantaire laughed. “Some days it’s opera, other days it’s rock. Lucky for you, I have an extra set of tails in my closet. You will be spared the embarrassment of appearing at the opera in jeans.” He stood up and stretched. “I also have a gift for you. Although nothing quite as impressive as that lunch box and…is that a box covered in dinosaur stickers?”

Feuilly blushed. “My friend…he’s in med school. He made me a first aid kit and decorated it with dinosaur stickers. You know, to make it friendlier and less scary?” Joly’s logic wasn’t always the easiest to follow.

Grantaire hummed. “Is your friend in pediatrics?”

“Actually, no. He just likes dinosaur stickers.”

“Your friend has good taste in stickers.” Grantaire rolled his head a few times, working the kinks out of his neck. “We can put that in the back office, along with your lunch.” He grinned at Feuilly. “You ready? You look a little pale.”

“I’m a bit nervous I guess,” Feuilly replied.

“No need for that,” Grantaire said kindly, patting Feuilly’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Shall we get started?”

Feuilly nodded.

“Excellent. So, I’d better give you the grand tour.” Grantaire swept out his arms, twirling like Maria von Trapp. “This, as I’m sure you’ve astutely noted, is the studio. We’re currently standing in the composition area, where, funnily enough, I keep the composing tables; also some of the type trays, the furniture, the page cord – all that good stuff. I also keep a sketch table in here. Over here,” he gestured across the room, “is where the presses live. I have a mini-platen press for greeting cards, invitations, and other small projects and a Vandercook for large letterpress projects.  I’ve got my eye on some etching presses, but to get another press means I need more money. That, Feuilly, is where you come in.”

“What, am I supposed to sneak into the art building and steal an etching press for you?” Feuilly teased. “I don’t think I know you well enough to start stealing things for you.”

Grantaire laughed. “Not quite. I’ve been scouring grants for some time now to get the funds for an etching press, and you are going to get your first experience working on grant applications. Your name will be on it and everything.”

Feuilly chewed his lip nervously. “If you get the grant, then that means…”

“That you, my fine friend, can put that on your resumé. Hopefully the grant will come through in time for you to actually use said press to make woodblock prints for a gallery showing.”

“ _Gallery showing?_ ” Feuilly felt his heart start to pound. What gallery showing?

“Just because I haven’t gotten off my lazy ass to get a gallery showing together doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be pursuing it,” Grantaire said firmly. “My job as your mentor is to make sure you have opportunities like this so you can get your foot in the door.”

“But…”

“No buts. Now, the big storage and stock room is through that door back there. But you’ve been in an art studio before, you know all this.” He headed towards another door covered in cut-out newspaper comics. “This is the actual drawing studio, but I don’t really use it all that much. I’m thinking of converting it to storage. If you want to make it your office while you’re here, you are more than welcome.”

Back in the hallway, he waved toward the back office. “That’s the back office, as you recall. That door,” he gestured at another door, “is my official office, also known as that room where I store my shit and hang my diplomas because that’s apparently what people do. Next to my office and right off of the reception area is a small consultation room. As the title suggests, this is the room where I meet with clients, patrons, and other what-have-yous. Bathroom is on the far end. Anything I missed?”

“The doorway to Narnia.”

Grantaire chuckled. “I have to have _some_ secrets,” he said as we walked to the studio. “Feel free to put your stuff in the back office – I’ll meet you in the studio.”

Feuilly put his things away and followed Grantaire back to the studio.

“Here is your present.” Grantaire handed Feuilly a bag. “Welcome to _typogRaphy_.”

Inside the bag was a black apron, emblazoned with “FEUILLY” on the chest and “typogRaphy” on the pocket in lime green.

“You…you made me an apron?” Feuilly asked quietly.

“You’re on staff now,” Grantaire replied. “Staff need official aprons.” He took the apron out of Feuilly’s hands. “Feuilly, are you ready to be received into the fellowship of printers?” he asked solemnly.

Feuilly bowed his head. “I am.”

“By the power vested in me by my status as owner of this ill-advised enterprise, I welcome you, Feuilly, into the fellowship of printers, with all rights and honors pertaining thereto.” Grantaire placed the apron over Feuilly’s head with a flourish.

Feuilly smiled brightly.  “Thanks, Grantaire.”

“Don’t mention it.” Grantaire busied himself with a type tray. “Oh, and it’s R. I don’t stand much on ceremony.”

“You don’t say.” Feuilly glanced at Grantaire’s shoes; the Nikes were teal and orange today.

“Sarcasm is an awful habit and will not be tolerated in my studio,” Grantaire replied loftily with a conspiratorial wink. “So, your first task today is to learn, or review, how to use a platen press.” He clapped his hands together in a grand gesture, presumably to illustrate that work had begun.

“We have an engaged couple coming in this afternoon who are indecisive about which font they want to use on their save-the-dates. They’ve booked us for the whole wedding, actually. We’ll have the honor of printing their save-the-dates, their official invitations, their thank-you-cards, their wedding programs, even their napkins! Napkins! I mean, I thought I was frivolous when I went and dropped a hundred bucks on one bottle of wine, but these two want letterpressed napkins! People are going to wipe their faces with our work! I don’t know if I’m delighted or insulted at the prospect.”

Feuilly couldn’t help but grin as Grantaire continued, arms gesticulating wildly to emphasize his point.

“I mean, I’ve always joked that my work wasn’t fit for much more than being used in such a manner, but people have willingly sought me out to have me print material that they will indeed use to wipe their faces. It’s a milestone, in any event. A horrific or wonderful milestone. Anyway, what was I saying?”

“They’re indecisive about fonts,” Feuilly prompted, attempting to keep a straight face.

“Right. I don’t think much of their choices myself - they’ve got an assortment of overly-swishy calligraphy and overly-pointy Gothic typefaces, and they’re all completely illegible. So, what I offered to do is print them up samples with their chosen text in each font. I already pulled the type cases for us so we can get started. We just need to set the type, mix the ink, and print. Think you can handle that?”

“Absolutely.”

Grantaire smiled. “Excellent. Come! You can be the Mallika to my Lakmé, and we can sing the Flower Duet together while we set type.”

Grantaire was a really strange man, Feuilly decided. “Who now?”

“From the opera _Lakmé_. The one we were listening to. I shall be Lakmé, the daughter of the Brahmin priest and you shall be my servant Mallika. Together we shall go to the river and gather flowers. Or, in this case, set type. Repeat after me: _Sous le dome épais le blanc jasmin à la rose s’assemble.”_

“Sous le dome épais le blanc jasmin à la rose s’assemble.”

“Excellent!  _Sur la rive en fleurs riant au matin, viens descendons assemble_.” 

“Sur la rive en fleurs riant au matin, viens descendons assemble.”

“Main bien sur!” Grantaire exclaimed. “Now, sing what I’ve taught you on my mark.”

It was an odd scenario; an artist and an art student setting type, singing French opera. But once his fingers found the rhythm of the type, even if his lips stumbled on the rhythm of the words, he felt at peace. At home, even.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my second fic and my first multi-chaptered fic, so feedback is definitely welcome.
> 
> I have a writing Tumblr if you want to say hi! http://lecrivaineanonyme.tumblr.com/


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